Never Too Late
by hells.full-heaven.wont.have.me
Summary: Percy is tired with life. it's hard, demanding, and he cant deal with it anymore. So here he stands at the top of the Empire State building with a letter, pen,his memories, and a choice. (an: just a one-shot


It's so hard. Things that are instinctual, things you never notice and appreciate. They're so easy... Until they're not. Breathing is difficult; every heart beat feels like a mile. Every day feels like a week in hell. Weeks blend to months, until it's just month after month of torture. You think you would admire every breath and beat, and your continued living, but you don't. It all becomes a burden, a million pound bundle of depressing thoughts, and actions. I wish it could all end, I wish I could just be through with my sad excuse for life. My chest feels shattered, an erratically beating heart, pounding through it. The pieces of my shattered heart and soul piercing my skin bringing forth agony. I can feel it all. It's what I live for. I live for it because I know that one day that heart beat and that breath I hear every second of my pitiful life will end. I live for it because I know one day the pain will end I know I will end it.

You think I'm weak; it's written on your faces. But I can't keep living, when your done living you know. Your bloods pumping, your brain's pulsating, your veins run red with heathy blood. It's all functioning like it's supposed to, but you know that it's done, you no longer think of crosswalks, stop signs, or rushing cars, or bad people on dangerous streets, because you're not worried. Life no longer has any meaning. My life is no longer meaningful. I'm sorry, but I can't live like I'm dying anymore.

With no regrets,

The boy who was a victim-Percy Jackson

_When he goes to school_

_He is pelted_

_Not with sticks or stones_

_But with words_

_They say sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you_

_When they called him a loser_

_When they said he was fatherless, ugly, gay_

_His heart crumpled in and he felt they worlds hurt on his shoulders_

_Like Atlas the Titan he felt like the world was resting on him_

_It was smothering him_

_But unlike Atlas who refused to let the world crush him_

_He was a 14 year old boy_

_Unable to handle the weight He died that day_

_He was still walking and talking_

_But he was an empty shell_

_Dead on the inside_

_*The sticks and stones never killed him_

_*The words did_

I finished writing and set my pen down. It was the pen I got from Grover. I remember the day I got it. It was a day like no other. It was the one day where I couldn't hear my heart beat or feel the weight of the world on my crumbling shoulders. Grover told me to write my own destiny, and to walk my own path, then he handed me the pen, and acted like it never happened. He can pretend it didn't happen but I've carried it with me for a very long time.

It's funny how a pen can hold so much yet have no hands. It holds all the meaning of Grover's words. When Grover gave me this pen I don't think he thought I would use it for my goodbye. I think he thought I would use it to create the future; to sign my college application or my job résumé, not this, not to end my life.

Future, what a misleading word. I say it and I feel the end. This isn't how it should be. When I think future I should think life, and creation, colours, and happiness, but it's just a lie. It all a lie. Life isn't future, it's present. My life is now, and the end is the future. My end and my future are so closely intertwined. My life and the present are slowly floating away, like dandelions in a breeze.

And so here I stand at the top of the Empire State Building. My life in the hands of gravity, yet all I can think of is past. Not present or future, just of past, and life. I think back to when I laughed, and I was happy, and I can still feel it. The weightless feeling it gave me, like nothing could touch me.

I think of my mother on my 5th birthday. It wasn't spectacular or expensive, but it was pure joy. The blue cake, made by my mother, decorated with cheap candles, and silly sparklers. I remember laughing for hours with my mom, watching corny chick flicks on our ripped sofa, and her telling me about her bad experiences with boyfriends. Her crinkled smile lighting up my world; not the youngest but still the most beautiful. We weren't rich, but what we didn't have in money, we had in happiness. I never cared about the fact that I had no friends to invite to my party, or that I had no father, or that the thing passing as my father was nothing but a no good, alcohol loving, pig. I never cared because 'oh', that glorious feeling of completeness, of fulfillment, of sheer happiness, could fuel me for decades. I guess I was wrong with the happiness staying for decades seeing as it ran out a long time ago.

Maybe my happiness hasn't ran out, maybe it's just buried. With the wind through my hair and my death a step away, I think. I think maybe I can find that feeling again, maybe I can feel weightless, and full of life, and simply happy. I can find meaning to my life, I can create a future, and experience colours, and joys, and laughter.

I breathe in the air. This breath is no longer my last, it is my first. My start to a new life. A life I will appreciate, and never think of giving up. I will make every breath count, every heart beat a symphony. I will walk my own path, and most importantly I will write my own destiny.

I step from the ledge, and SEE. I see it all, to the clouds, to the brilliant sun, to the millions of lives below me. I rip up my paper. The paper that was going to cause my mother to grieve, my father to weep, and my friends to mourn, floating to the ground in a flurry of black and white.

Life isn't going to always be perfect. It will have flaws, and mistakes will be made, but I will come through them knowing I stayed strong, even at my weakest. Maybe one day I'll tell my story. Hopefully the millions of others on the earth, who have written letters like mine, will hear it. I want them to find the joy, and brilliance in life that I did. Step of the ledge, flush those blades, untie that rope, put those pills back in there bottle. Keep living, because you deserve it.

_This world will never be what I expected, and if I don't belong, who would have guessed it_

_- THREE DAYS GRACE_


End file.
